


Nursing Care

by Labeteenmoi



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Drama & Romance, F/M, Medical Procedures, Minor Violence, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2018-04-09
Packaged: 2019-04-20 16:09:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14264736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Labeteenmoi/pseuds/Labeteenmoi
Summary: With age comes wisdom and patience. Well, not for everyone, not for Alfie when it comes to deal with his health issues and with a mouthy nurse who just won't bow to his demands so easily.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there.
> 
> Again some Alfie the man AU fanfiction.   
> Alfie has back problems in the show, that inspired me a little story with only two parts for the moment. There is more to come but no idea how much and where this is going exactly so feel free to make suggestions if you like.
> 
> English is not my mother tongue so please forgive me for any wrong formulations you might find. Please don't hesitate in pointing them out to me so I can correct and learn from my mistakes.
> 
> I hope you enjoy your reading and any comments are very welcome

 

It is a low complaint, a guttural groan that draws her into the alley, barely audible under the din of the rain beating on her umbrella that night.

Among the rubbish and garbage heaped on the sodden ground, a vaguely human form stands out in the faint light coming from the sidewalk where she stands. She knows that she should approach cautiously, but when a new wail is heard, the sound is clearly this time from the extended person. So she rushes, throwing her umbrella still open behind her, letting her handbag slip from her shoulder to the floor, the quick snapping of her heels bouncing off the narrow brick walls.

It's a man, lying on his side. His light-colored shirt sticks on his wet, shaky back.

"Sir, I'm a nurse, I will help you." She declares loudly to be heard over the storm, crouching near him.

Seeing a darker stain coming off his side, she grabs his shoulder to turn him over. From what she sees, the stain is only the place from where came out the bullet that hit him in the belly. It had come out and the blood was not too abundant, she first thinks she will to be able to save him. But once put on his back, seeing two other shining impacts on his chest, the glimmer of hope vanished.

"My God ... what happened ?!" she tries in vain to question the man with bulging eyes, who opens and closes his mouth compulsively, trying to bring the air into his pierced lungs.

Her tone is alert but controlled. Far from her to think that it is fucked, it never is until you have not tried everything. Concentrated, she does not feel the rain falling on her neck and that flows inside her uniform and under her coat, she does not mind about her knees resting on the wet and dirty floor. Nor does she notice the noise made by the engine of a car traveling in the street from which she arrived; it passes, seeming to move away, before finally getting closer.

She puts her hands on the wounds and presses, containing the blood that escapes in a spongy sound, tearing a hiccup of pain to the extended man who seems to catch his breath for a moment, despite his face flooded with rain.

"Hold on tight!" she encourages, pressing her full weight on his chest, her hair streaming down her eyes. All at once, powerful hands seize her arms, raising her suddenly.

"Let me go, damn it, he's hurt!" she screams, struggling.

She shakes her arms like a madwoman, the men who hold her are not too many to hold her, but her feet scarcely touch the ground. They move her unceremoniously away from the wounded man, their faces hidden under black hats.

"Stop! Release me!" she screams, while the tall, dark, silent figures still drag her along the alley. They stop to get her things back on the ground. She tries to slip her arms between the hands that pull her down, but they get up too quickly and reinsure their catch on her coat without a word, as she shakes and screams again.

"What the hell is this ?! Stop!" Suddenly her voice no longer resonates; they drove down the main street when their hands tightened painfully around her arms and under her armpits to lift her up and force her into a car.

She is so light that she's almost projected on the back seat. Half lying, her wet clothes splashing the leather of the seat, she is recovering furiously, but the men slam the door before she could reach them. In the dark cabin, her hands hastily inspect the fabric that covers the door, looking for the handle, fuming. "And shit, let me out!" she screams, trying to cover the sound of the engine running.

"Will you fucking calm down, lass!" suddenly growls a rocky voice near her.

Surprised, she turns hurriedly, her hair throwing water on the man sitting on the bench in front of hers.

"Damn it!" he cries, raising his arms in front of his face, almost raising the large black hat that covers his head. "Stop that already, woman! Look what you're doing to the fucking car!"

Ignoring the remonstrance of the man with the thundering voice, she barks "Let me out!"

Wearing his hands laden with rings on his face, the man wipes himself, muttering unintelligible words.

"Right now, open that fucking door!" she roars, finally drawing his attention.

"Mm ... what is it you intend to do, lady? Mm?" he asks with calmness that only fuels her anger a little more.

"Are you kidding me? This man is going to die if we do nothing!" She shouts out of her.

"Yeah ... he might, and that's what he should do, see, Mm?" he says, raising his hat with a finger as he leans toward her, revealing a falsely resigned pout under his thick beard.

"What?" staring at him incredulously at first, her face suddenly becomes serious, the words of the man making sense in her mind.

Taking a deep breath, the man recoiled on his seat, plunging his face again into the darkness of the cabin.

"Right. Now, lass. What is it you'll do when getting out ?" he asks in a deep voice.

"Save that man." She answers bluntly, no hesitation in her tone.

"Of course ... Yeah ... Ain't it my luck !" he exclaims suddenly, raising his voice. "Fucking empty streets all the fucking time but tonight, just tonight, right... it had to throw a tiny fucking Samaritan into my business, innit ? Fuckin' hell..." he sighs while tapping his knees flat with his hands before continuing:

"David, would you please enlighten me with your latest knowledge, lad ? That would save us some time, innit ?"

"Gavina Sanna. Nurse at the St. Pancras hospital." dictate a voice from the front of the vehicle.

The man in the hat gives a brief mumbling whose intonation suggests his interest in this information.

"What ?! You search my stuff!" she protests loudly.

"Gavina... Tell me, how would you have saved this man ? Huh ? With you bare little hands, yeah ? " He interrupts, a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

"You don't know shit about me ! How dare you mock me?" She hisses nervously, clenching her fists against the soaked leather of the squeaky seat. "Fuck you! Who the hell you think you are?!" She starts to scream furiously, pushing the locks on her face with bloody hands, leaving reddish marks on her forehead and cheeks.

The man jumps imperceptibly before moving his face towards her, eyes wide open and lips pursed under his mustache, and replying immediately: "Fuck me?! Fuck me! If you do not know who I am, lass, you better stay out of these damn streets!" he spits in his turn, thundering.

She is the one who starts this time, more impressed by the vibrations of his voice being felt throughout the cabin up to her legs, than by the threat implied.

"Holy shit, fucking unbelievable! Ishmael, bring us to the bakery, lad, seems I've got some work to do." he orders in the same resounding tone, his furious gaze on her. The engine quietly rumbles as the car starts.

"And the man..." she continues with a cheeky air.

"Is dead by now, lass. Nothing you can do about it, right ?" he said with an exasperated air. He searches his pocket briefly and pulls out a white cotton handkerchief that he disdainfully throws on her lap.

"You can let me out then." she replies, ignoring the piece of cloth.

"Mm... Can I ?"

Leaving her question in abeyance, the man remains silent and observes her from his shadowy corner.

Feeling his eyes on her, the nurse searches the darkness for a moment looking for an answer on his face but cannot see anything, except the edge of his hat that the faint lights of the street illuminate at the passage of the vehicle.

Shaking her head in exasperation, she briefly breathes through her nose. Grabbing the handkerchief she wipes her face and eyes widen at the sight of blood on the cloth and on her hands. She had almost forgotten what she was doing before ending up there, her hands trying to hold inside this man the little life that still remained there.

A quick shiver runs through her, reminding her that her wet clothes are cooling her body now that she is no longer in the heat of the moment.

Crossing her arms to hold back the heat, she looks at the man again.

"Where are you taking me? You don't want to leave two bodies in the same place ?" She quips, shrugging her shoulders insolently.

The man leans towards her again. The fleeting light illuminates the lower part of his face for a moment, he smiles before laughing.

"You're some kind of loudmouth pain in the ass, ain't you, little lady? Hell if I never thought of spreading the corpses of my enemies all around the place! Yeah… Again! Right? But war is over, lass, war is over…" he finishes with a kind of melancholy in his voice, clasping his hands in front of him.

"Mm… So now you're a reasonable man. Only one corpse at a time…" she retorted, more for herself than for the man who almost faces her. He only notes the remark with a mournful grunt.

She looks thoughtfully down the streets saturated with water that glow dimly under scattered streetlights. He is right, no one, let alone a woman, walks alone outside at this hour of the night, the time of the wolves, and in such weather. But she had finished her guard at the hospital later than usual, retained by Dr. Eddison who never tired of abusing her time and patience. Except when it came to being helpful and compassionate and escorting a lady to make sure she returned home safely. But Gavina certainly did not expect so much from him, not after he made her loose her position as head nurse because she roughly refused his advances.

The car starts to slow down. She notices that they have not even left Camden Town as it parks in front of a large stone building.

The rain has calmed down, only a few fine drops still fall. She gets out of the car, silently watched by one of the men who was in the front and opens the door. His gaze is invisible under the edge of his dark hat, only a beard protrudes under the shadow that covers his face. Gavina stares at him in disgrace, her face raised to his; he is two heads taller than she is. She stands motionless until he pivots to free the way before her, abdicating.

"Ishmael, get the car cleaned, will ya ?" Says the chief passing them by. "It looks like someone took a fuckin' bath in there..." he grumbles as he walks away to the broad door of the building with his other man.

Gavina notices only the cane punctuating with a click on the shining pavement every step of the man, slightly limp. The shoulders hunched under his long black coat make him look tired and clumsy.

He finally turns to her. "Please, lass, be my guest ..." he says, curling slightly. Throwing a last bad look at the so-called Ishmael in front of her, she joins the entrance without a word, unnecessarily clutching her wet coat around her to warm up.

Analyzing the situation, these men do not seem particularly hostile towards her, but she is on her guard, no idea of what is behind these doors. Preceded by David, she enters inside. A powerful smell of rum assails her nostrils.

"What is this place?" She asks, a hand on her nose to soften the smell.

"My bakery this is we bake all sorts of bread, yeah." he answers.

She turns to him, gauging his sincerity, but what she sees of his face is impassive, he does not joke. They cross rows of barrels and large vats of wood in the semi-darkness of the place, a large, dusty warehouse.

"Mm ... Of course." she answers, ostensibly ironic. The urge to add something titillates but suddenly a memory emerges in her head and holds it back, she has already heard of this place. If that's true, she realizes she might be in trouble.

It is hard to believe, however, that the worn and crippled man who follows her can be as dangerous as they say. David leads her into an office. The smell is less strong and the room more welcoming than the rest of the place. She turns to see the owner of the place entering and David leaves them, closing the door without a word.

"Sit." he commands in a rough tone, pointing his cane at the chair facing the large wooden desk. Bypassing the furniture, he drops his cane on the desk before falling heavily into the chair that is visibly reserved to him, letting out a grimacing sigh.

At her fixed posture, he raises puzzled eyes to her, eyebrows raised under his hat that he gently grabs and poses on the desk, finally revealing his face. Fatigue can be read on his drawn features. The yellow light diffused by the lamps around them digs pockets under his eyes, but soften also the severe expression he addresses to her.

"Why aren't you seated already, mm ?" he asks curtly, clasping his hands, his elbows resting on the papers that dot his desk.

Gavina stares at him suspiciously, arms crossed over her belly. The few strands of hair on her forehead and along her temples are no longer dripping, but her pale complexion and her slightly trembling lips testify to the coldness that assails her.

The man blows, falling back into his seat. "David!" He calls, his face leaning toward the door. "Find some clothes for our guest, will ya?" He asks as his man appears.

"In the meantime ..." he says, leaning his head towards Gavina, a hand extended towards the empty chair next to her. She notes his tone softens and his look is more reassuring. She eventually obeys, her eyes still on him.

Seconds pass without a word being spoken. They observe each other, silently, a mixture of curiosity and distrust in their eyes. The man shaves his beard with his fingertips and then opens his mouth.

"You are Alfred Solomons." she suddenly asserts, cutting short what he was about to say.

"I am." He nods softly in his rocky voice.

"I've heard you're a dangerous man, but I do not listen to rumors in the corridors." she continues without blinking.

"Mm ... Wise, yeah." he agrees, still running his fingers from his mustache to the bottom of his beard.

"But maybe I was wrong, so ... what do you want from me?" His voice then trembles a little, revealing the nervousness that points beneath her apparent coolness.

Solomons freezes the movements of his hand for a moment. A beginning of smile imperceptibly stretches his lips as he leans over his desk. "Do you always speak your mind like that?"

"Only when I'm uneasy," she replies, with a reproachful tone, crossing her legs.

He bends his head, mimicking a sorry pout, "Oh, is it me?"

Her temples warm up to the obvious mockery of her interlocutor. Her face hardens suddenly and her voice is louder as she bursts out in a bitter tone: "No, it's rather this damn situation where I was brought to this shitty place against my will and that a sort of tired old Jewish godfather is playing with me rather than coming to the point, that's it, you see? "

Solomons looks at her, his mouth open with stupefaction.  

"Sweet mother of fuck ... Is that your plan to get out of here alive? Yeah ?!" he thunders.

"Like that is your intention anyway!" she quips.

"You could at least fucking try, woman! What you think, mm? You could step your little Italian ass just like that into my business, on my territory, and get away with it so easily?" he spits, his face oscillates furiously with an accusing look.

"I wasn't minding your bloody business, I was just going home! You sow injured men on my way, what am I supposed to do?! I'm a goddamn nurse; I help people, that's what I do! For someone who fought in war you sure haven't gained any fucking respect for life!" declaims Gavina leaning toward the desk, her hands firmly on the edge of the cabinet. In her heat, she forgets the coldness of her clothes.

"Respect for life ! What makes you think that motherfucker deserved any of my respect? ! He explodes, the complexion red, hitting his fists tight on the desk.

With a bound, she gets up from her chair and yells back in a vain attempt to surpass the roar of her voice "Everyone deserves it ! At least a chance to fight back…"

With an outraged air, Alfred Solomons rises in his turn, inflating the chest. "Damn right you are and I gave him one! Far more respectful than this little shit ever been to me, I'm tellin' you!" he interrupts, pointing to her.

Imitating his attitude, she raises a finger in turn and opens her mouth to reply, but stops dead when someone knocks on the door.

"Yeah!" He exclaims immediately, cutting short any attempt to interrupt.

"I've got the clothes, Alfie" informs David, timidly opening the door.

"Perfect fucking timing, lad!" he exclaims with undisguised relief. "Take the lady to the private parts of this honorable shitty house and tell Ishmael to drive her home, will ya?" he adds eagerly.

Gavina looks at him with puzzlement, shrugging her shoulders. "What? That's all?! You're letting me go?" she almost protests, a hint of disappointment in her voice.

He sighs, letting himself fall heavily back into his seat, hands raised in surrender.

"Yeah, we're done here now, lass, before I can't get you to shut the fuck up again! Now, let me savor this sweet victory and get the hell out of here."


	2. part 2

 

"Gavi, there is someone for you at the reception."

This one sentence of her colleague Natalie is already arousing her mistrust. It had been three days since her nocturnal misadventure in Camden Town, and the more time passed, the more she felt coming the moment when she would hear about the crippled Jew again.

There, she is convinced that this visitor has something to do with this story, even before asking falsely detached, without taking the eyes of the file of a patient she completes, annotating the last care lavished. "What does he look like?"

"Well ... Jew, like most locals ..." Natalie replies, shrugging her shoulders with incomprehension.

"Did he growl?" Gavina insists, looking up at her.

"Uh ... how's that?" She shakes her head with a confused pout.

"Forget it, I'll see." Gavina finally gave in, she had her answer, Natalie would have known what she meant if he was the one she was thinking about. Moreover, she could hardly imagine him coming to speak to her in person. "Can you finish the report please?" "Of course."

She was no longer responsible on paper, but the years spent in this position and the experience counted far more in the eyes of her colleagues. Nothing had changed in reality, they still considered her responsible.

Leaving the waiting room, she sees at the end of the corridor the dark silhouette that she recognizes by the two wavy strands that protrude from the hat.

He watches the opposite corridor, on the lookout for her appearance. Her footsteps softened by her soft sandals, she arrives in his back without a sound.

"Ishmael, you're not with your boyfriend to carry me to the exit, you think you can handle me alone?"

He turns around hurriedly, trying to hide his embarrassment behind his raised eyebrows.

"What do you want ?" she continues with a sigh of annoyance.

"Mr. Solomons wants to see you, he's asking for your medical expertise." He replies, clasping his hands in a slow, controlled movement.

Gavina, hands in the pockets of her blue blouse de rigueur, looks at him from top to bottom with a mocking grin.

"My medical expertise, huh ... I'm sure he has very good Jewish doctors who would love to polish his boots, I'm just an Italian nurse: I do not work at home and certainly not for him." She starts slowly in a firm tone, which contrasts with the slight smile on her face.

Ishmael stamps briefly, trying to keep a neutral face. "You will be paid." He Insists.

Her smile grows, cheekily displaying her jubilation. "I could not care less about it even if I tried, you see? Tell him he can go to hell, exactly like that."

He opens his mouth again but suddenly she turns on her heels and goes back to where she came from, without even turning her head, leaving him standing in front of the reception desk.

 

* * *

 

"See you tomorrow !" Gavina answers on the fly to the other nurses who have finished their guard. She hangs her blouse at the coat rack and puts on her coat. Grabbing her purse, she trots to the exit so as not to be too far behind her colleagues.

As soon as she pushes the large glass door of the exit, a voice sounds behind her. "Gavina!"

She freezes, cursing herself for having dragged on again, the heavy door closing in front of her as if to illustrate the trap that was closing in on her.

"Gavina, have you finished Mr. Craig's file?" The man said, coming up behind her back.

She turns around, hiding her annoyance behind a polite smile. "No, Dr. Eddison, I'll take care of it tomorrow morning."

He raises his face with a stern expression, in his eyes shines a bad light. "No, I need it now." He insists.

But suddenly his face enlightens and from bad, the glow in his gaze becomes unhealthy. "You have better things to do, perhaps?" he adds in a sweet tone.

He steps forward a little more, lowering his face to her, voluntarily invading the space that Gavina tries to preserve by crossing her arms over her chest. His smell of cold tobacco and ether attacks her nostrils; the sharpness of his breath does not help.

"Do you have something planned tonight?" he continues, a mean smile growing on his face. He speaks less loudly, almost in her ear, like a confidence.

A cold sweat runs down her spine, Gavina moves back and her heel hits the door behind her. His eagerness became more and more evident, less and less feigned. So far Eddison had kept a certain amount of composure, always approaching her for professional reasons, at least in appearance, and keeping his distance despite the urgent glances he constantly addressed to her. But his sudden insistence and the almost physical pressure he exerts on her, shake her more than she would have thought possible.

Feeling her heart accelerate in her chest, she tries to ponder the words that are about to come out of her mouth, aware that at the next aggressive rebuff on her part, he will probably make her life a living hell, instead of having her fired.

The door suddenly opens behind her. A breath of fresh air surprises her, dissipating the tension around them.

"Miss Sanna, your car is waiting for you." Say a voice she recognizes before even turning around.

Dr. Eddison's gaze wavers confusedly between her and the intruder, before asking with a contrite air, "But who are you?"

"Mr. Sol ..."

"I'm sorry Dr. Eddison I'm expected," she loose before Ishmael was able to answer, trying to hide her relief. "You will have Mr. Craig's record at the first hour tomorrow morning."

Quickly placing a hand on Ishmael's chest, Gavina invites him to step back until the door closes behind them. The Solomons man obeyed but did not turn around, coldly staring at Dr. Eddison, who remained quiet on the other side of the glass door.

"Stop doing that, you're going to get me into trouble." She presses him in a low voice, watching his little intimidation game out of the corner of her eye as they walk away to the parking lot.

"Why did you cut me?" He reproaches, turning in the direction of the march. "I had only to say the name of Mr. Solomons and he would never have approached you again."

"This is not your problem, okay? It's my job here, you can not land like that, when your boss feels like it !" she retorts, her tone sharp. "And I have no desire to be associated with him ... And what are you still doing here anyway? Have I not already sent you graze this morning?"

"Mr. Solomons is not the type to go to hell." He retorts with amusement.

"It's because you have not put enough conviction in it." She sighs.

"Fortunately for you, if I had not been there ..."

She stops abruptly.

"If you had not been there what?" she snaps, suddenly raising her voice, trembling with anger at Ishmael's hint. "Eddison would have fucked me against the door? Come on, lad, luckily for him! You spared him from being humiliated by a woman, and so much the better for my job, but I know how to defend myself alone. Are we clear? "

The young man looks at her with a surprised look, "Very clear ..." he answers in a low voice.

She stares at him for a few moments, before resuming her walk towards the big black car, which she supposes to be that of Solomons, followed immediately by Ishmael.

"I did not hear "thank you" though." he adds ironically.

She shakes her head and then jokes while rolling her eyes. "I'm coming with you this time; I think it speaks for itself, right?"

 

* * *

 

 

Despite the growing darkness of the falling night, Gavina notices that they are not at the bakery. Rich houses line the sidewalks on both sides of the deserted street.

Arrived in the vestibule of one of them in the wake of Ishmael, he then leads her upstairs and opens a door, inviting her to enter with a wave of the hand. Remaining behind, he closes the door without entering the room.

The room is dimly lit. Behind a large dark wood desk covered with papers, thick curtains completely hide the windows facing her and a faint smell of tea and coal floats in the heavy air of the room, warmed by the fire that burns in the hearth near her.

"Well, I almost waited! Are you there to heal me, yeah?" grumbles a gruff, heavy voice.

Turning her head in surprise, she barely discerns Alfred Solomons lying on a long sofa in the darkest corner of the room.

She sighs, shaking her head. "Why would I be here otherwise?"

"How should I know, lass? Huh? To tell me to go fuck myself, face to face, perhaps?" He replies.

"Do not tempt me ..." she laughs softly.

"Hm. All right, show me what you are worth, Samaritan woman."

"Wait." She interrupts immediately, suspicious. "Is it a test? Because I'm not going to be your personal nurse, let it be clear between us."

Solomons utters a short, sonorous laugh that does not express any amusement. "How Ishmael convinced you to come, I'd like to know, yeah! It's not a fucking test, Miss Sanna, my fucking back is stuck, and my damn sciatica is back again. I've been stranded here since yesterday like a fucking wreck! "He roars.

Interrupted, Gavina finally approaches the couch. She first notices a large leather briefcase on the floor, similar to that of doctors, before discerning Solomons, lying on his back, wearing a simple pants and shirtless, leaning against a cushion.

On the pedestal near him piled up papers and newspapers, surmounted by a pair of gilded spectacles. Next to it lies a tray containing a richly decorated porcelain teapot and an empty cup, which leaves scarcely room for a lamp whose flame is extinguished. Its brass foot is blackened by the patina of time and a box of matches sits in precarious balance.

It is on these unimportant details of the decoration that Gavina voluntarily lingers. To see a shirtless, or even completely naked man, was part of her daily life, but when she saw him, she was immediately struck by his appearance. He did not look exactly the same as when she met him. Rid of his coat and his clothes, his body appeared much more athletic. The firm-looking muscles of his chest and belly were outlined beneath his smooth-grain skin. Tattoos dotted his arms and his slightly hairy chest, which, lying down, seemed much wider and imposing than before. His hands, fingers intertwined, nonchalantly placed on the skin under his belly button, leaned on the waistband of his pants whose fabric formed a suggestive hump where his crotch was.

He no longer looked like a tired old man, on the contrary, she saw there a seductive man in full strength of age.

If it had not been for his facial hair and his peculiar way of speaking, she would hardly have recognized him. This stark contrast with what she expected to see had taken her by surprise, piquing her interest, the kind she had not felt in a long time. Just a glance, and her first reaction was then to look away, to clear her mind, before getting to stare at him curiously with her mouth open and her imagination boiling.

Despite the pain and the electric shocks that overwhelm his back, Gavina's sudden mutism and shifty eyes do not escape him, he then emits an interrogative mumble.

"What is it?" She tiptoes the leather briefcase on the floor, her hands firmly clutching her bag, trying to distract his attention. "Does the doctor to whom it belongs lie somewhere in the house?" She turns her eyes to him, taking care not to leave his gaze.

An amused pout stealthily grows on his face before turning into a grimace, his body contracting and writhing with pain at the occurrence of a new discharge in the lower back.

"Aargh, fuck ... Stop playing, will you, and do something!" He wails.

The memory of her own frustration during their meeting comes back to her immediately. He is defenseless and at her mercy, the opportunity is too good not to return the favor.

She then forgets her confusion, viciously amused to hear him whine. "But what do you want me to do exactly, and without equipment?" she chuckles, a smile on the corner of her mouth.

"Ya think the fucking bag is there to decorate my floor?" he gets angry, emitting a new cry of pain.

"Sweet Jesus, if it's not sad to see a man scream like that for a little boo ..." she sighs, ostensibly ironic.

Solomons sits up painfully in the couch, frowning and looking almost incredulous. He stares at her for a moment and understands at her brazenly pleased expression that she's playing him.

He then nods, eyes narrowed and a frowning pout under his thick beard. "I see, mm... enjoying the moment, innit?"

"No, I'm savoring it actually... a _sweet victory_ ..." she says with a satisfied smile, her hands clasped behind her back, swaying back and forth.

He sighs heavily, turning a resigned look towards the floor. "All right, all right ... you won this one, happy now, yeah?"

"Good !" she exclaims, triumphantly, as he shakes his head and lets it fall back on his pillow, definitely defeated.

Taking off her coat, she throws it on the arm of the sofa near his feet before approaching the table. She scrapes a match and ignites the wick of the lamp before exploring the contents of the briefcase under the curious gaze of Solomons.

"Sciatica you say?"

"Yeah, it's been torturing me slowly for years. Now it's been tryin' to kill me, I think."

She gives him a serious look, the duty making her impervious to the trouble she had felt earlier. "If the pain is so intense ..."

"It fucking is" he interrupts harshly.

"... these are epidural injections you need, I'm not supposed to do that kind of care as a nurse ..." she continues, ignoring him.

"But you've done it already, haven't you?" he cuts again, a bit of apprehension in his voice.

She stares at him indecipherably, deciding whether she should yield to his need to be reassured, and then decides she won't. "Turn on your stomach." She orders.

He obeyed after a few seconds of hesitation, scrutinizing first any sign of mockery on the face of Gavina who remains impassive waiting to see him do. Carefully, he leans on the cushions and slowly turns his pelvis, giving a sigh of relief when he finishes his rotation, arms folded under his chin, his face buried in the pillow.

After rubbing her hands with the alcohol found in the bag, Gavina extracts a pouch containing syringes and a small glass bottle filled with needles.

Turning his face towards her, he watches her assemble a syringe before seizing a vial filled with a transparent liquid whose label is hidden by her hand.

"Learned this during the war, right?" He repeats, saying it more than he asks for it this time, his voice as deep and soft as as an invitation to confide.

She looks at him for a few moments, astonished at his warm attitude suddenly and realizing the closeness of his face and the sweetness in his eyes, creating a kind of intimacy between them. Almost unconsciously she smiled at him, invaded by an incongruous sense of quietness, as if she had known this man forever.

He returns a warm smile, small folds forming under his eyes, adding tenderness to his expression, and the temperature of the room seems to go up a notch. It is then that she becomes aware of the absurdity of the situation. She has just felt close to this man, a mobster, without pity or embarrassment, and who seems to enjoy nothing more than to put her in impossible situations.

Recovering her senses, she shakes her head and focuses on filling her syringe, fleeing her eyes again.

"What was good at the front" she begins, striving to adopt a neutral face and dispel the charm of the moment, "it did not matter what your position was, whether you knew how to do something or not, and if you did not know it well, you learned it very quickly because a life depended on it, all the time."

She stands up without a glance at him, aware that he is undoubtedly happy to have destabilized her for a moment. The syringe in one hand, ready for use, a cotton dipped in alcohol in the other, she approaches his back and kneels; the sofa is too low to proceed otherwise.

She then delicately rubs the cotton at the base of the ileocostal muscle, in small circular motions, right next to the spine and at the edge of the waistband of his pants that she pushes back slightly from the back of her hand. Then she plants the needle.

"Fuck!" he grunts at once, involuntarily contracting the muscles of his back.

"What? It hurts?" she wonders sincerely, emptying the syringe into the flesh.

"You could at least warn for fucks' sake!" he complains, raising his head, looking furiously out of the corner of his eye.

"Uh, calm down soldier!" she retorts, falsely annoyed, rubbing the sting with the cotton. "You must hang on, old man, it was the most fun part ..."

She gets up and returns to the briefcase with a mocking smile, assemble a new syringe and fill it with another liquid, the needle longer than the previous one.

He grunts in response, rubbing his forehead against his hands as she sits back near the couch.

"Here, put it under your belly," she orders, handing him a cushion. He grabbed it, still grumbling, slowly lifting his pelvis, fearing a new wave of pain. Its arch thus rounded, the vertebrae will be more spaced, freeing more space for the passage of the needle.

The operation is more delicate this time; she must be perfectly perpendicular to the area she must inject. Poor movement or pressure on the needle and he may never be able to stand again.

Looking from left to right along the body lying on the couch, she looks how she could put herself to carry out her task, refusing to admit from the outset that the only position she would have liked to avoid is the only one appropriate. But she does not find anything better. In a silent breath, she resigns herself.

"Hem ... I'm going to have to sit on you." she declares in one go, in the most natural way possible.

"Hm?" he says, looking up puzzled. "You do not tire of humiliating me anymore."

"I'm serious ... That's it or you go to the hospital ..." she adds harshly.

"All right, all right, you're the professional ... And if you like mixing business and pleasure, who am I to judge, right?"

His mischievous look leaves no doubt about his intentions, their little game of "who will have the last word" was not over, and far from him the idea of losing a new round apparently.

She shakes her head, trying to keep her mind cold and insensitive to his provocation. She takes off her boots with the tips of her feet and then moves forward. She straddles his pelvis, sliding a knee between the back of the sofa and his hip, while trying to keep her balance, keeping her hands in the air so as not to risk defiling the needle.

Solomons slightly swivels his pelvis - he sweats a little, the skin of his back shines sweetly in the yellow and orange glow of the flame of the lamp - to make room for her when she climbs her second knee and sticks it to his other hip.

Her dress slips and rises on her thighs, stretched by the spread of her legs - his shoulders roll gently under his skin like waves when he repositions his arms under his head. But she is still too low; if she sits she will end up on the back of his thighs and will have to lean forward uncomfortably to reach the lumbar area.

She waffles for a moment then decides and slides her knees along his hips. Her dress goes back this time and frankly ends up flush with her panties. She rejoices internally that he cannot watch the scene but at the same time, Solomons is strangely silent while she waddles over him and it makes her uncomfortable.

"Well ... why are you saying nothing suddenly?"

"Hm ... I was wondering if you were doing this kind of gymnastics often, are you really going to put your italian ass on mine?" He teases.

"Yes ... it's a problem?"

"Oh no, you should just know that the fabric of these pants is very thin ..." his heavy, rocky, overhearing voice grips her.

Something contracts convulsively with his words; she knows exactly what it is. It is located in her lower abdomen and in medical language it is called the perineum. But in the language of her body, this is what happens when she is suddenly excited and her heart accelerates, pumping blood faster through her veins to try to cool the fire that is smoldering under her skin.

Fuck it, he will not have it, he's just teasing her, it would be stupid to fall for it.

So she sits down, and then she immediately doubts that it's still a game when she feels shudder against her sex the muscles of his buttocks under the soft flesh that covers them, and that she sees his back rise and grow under the deep breath he takes. It trembles softly as he releases it.

Inside her it contorts again uncontrollably and she annoys "Stop it, all right? I'm not here for fun."

She can see his beard stretch under heis smile. "Holy shit, relax, lass, I'm the patient here!" he exclaims, barely concealing his amusement.

She grits her teeth and refocuses, closing her eyes. It must be an eternity that she was not so close to a man, and what to say about riding one. But this is really not the time to reconsider her non-existent sex life and to wonder why it is this man who brings these reflections to the surface.

"I am quite relaxed, old man. Fortunately for you!" she retorts, her tone not at all casual making him chuckle.

She lowers her eyes to the base of her back and disinfects the area where she is going to point the needle. She puts her hand flat, feeling with her fingertips the hollows that separate her vertebrae above the skin and the flesh. She also feels the warmth of his skin and a roar that rolls inside his abdomen like a purr at her touch.

"Oh by the way ..." she resumes.

"Hmm ...?"

"It'll be extremely painful." she warns coldly with a hint of cruel jubilation.

His body stretches and his breathing blocks, preparing for the worst. She inserts the needle and guides it through the muscle, gently pushing it in until she feels the resistance of the membrane that surrounds the epidural space. He emits a weak wailing, as restrained. She can feel the tension of his body that is accentuated between her legs. She presses a little more than a millimeter, feeling the membrane give way, and presses the piston. In a continuous gesture, she removes the needle as soon as the piston is fully depressed, then blows. With her free hand she may hold some pressure on his skin. She glances behind her and sees his feet and toes squirm.

She pats his back and says, "It's over."

"What ?! Really?" He asks, turning his head, stunned.

"It was a joke, old man, the first injection was anesthetic, you weren't going to feel it that much!" she exclaims, a playful tone as she sits up on her legs and jumps from the couch to the floor.

Throwing the empty syringe into the briefcase, she puts on her shoes without giving him a single glance. If she manages to leave before he can recover, she will claim a new victory.

"What you doin', lass? You think you can fool me and leave like this?" His voice rolls in his throat like thunder threatening to approach.

"Don't stand up !" she orders, picking up her coat from behind so that he can't turn around and see the mocking tune she barely conceals. "Stay lying down, it's important." She adds, discreetly running to the door, picking up her bag on her way.

"How long?" He growls, planted on his elbows, not daring to move any further. But she is no longer there.


End file.
